I tremble at blank pages. Penning
next days crumbled outtakes until
there are no words left for today.So I
steep myself in tea
and toss words like an abstract artist
until the page is stained
with tea and ink blots resembling
hope and substance.
Posts Categorized: poetry
No words, just erupted scream–
an earthquaked soul
in the crumbled devastation of a child “deceased”.
And with equal force the Spirit pushed back
against caving walls of motherhood.
Opening resurrection doors
to the Father’s will
that no temporary grave consumes. Building
fortified love and hope where there
are no words, just a heart that welcomes orphans in.
Sleep sacrifices itself,
nervously walking the halls of your
mind, jingling uneasy keys of security. Sensing
a breach, depression silently
intrudes, slithering around
restless souls, squeezing sincere
serenity from the sheets
of sanity. Until you surrender
to the venom of its lullaby.
P.S. I know insomnia well. Some of my earliest memories are severe nightmares and lying awake all night. I share this struggle with you because the desperation for sleep can lead to impulsiveness, and choices that a mind refreshed by sleep would not make. Even still my hope is in the Lord.
I don’t know why he has allowed this thorn in my flesh to remain. Maybe it is to encourage you in a moment of hopelessness! Even while I suffer I will turn this page, and remember that God makes each day new. You too are longing mind, body and soul for rest and may be tempted to, or, already are attempting to self medicate to attain sleep. Do not fight this battle alone. Turn the page on this night, with me! Lean hard into Christ, who was so tired he fell asleep on a boat in the middle of a storm. Like him, trust God to get you through this storm. My prayers are with you. Here are some scriptures to meditate on as we lay our weary heads on our pillows:
Isaiah 26:3 You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are
steadfast, because they trust in you. …
Mark 4:39… waves, “Silence! Be still!” The wind sank, and a perfect calm set in. … He awoke, and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still …
I am Juliet, romancing
depression like a star-crossed
lover, and drinking a poisoned vial of knowledge
to freeze the tic-toc of suffering. Graves and rosy
cheeked epitaphs serendade my hopes and dreams
with youthful ignorance. We elope to escape the tyranny of
commitment. Brow, not yet soiled by sweat, does not
have the strength to withstand suicide’s slander. So I lie, willingly,
in wait for my Romeo to rescue. And leave the priests to ask,
“Death, what are your intentions?”
Humanity keeps scratching graffiti identity
into wood and bathroom stalls . . .
Settling for surface tattoos,
when I engraved you in the palm of my hands.
(Isaiah 49:16)
Before the swell of gospel melody,
The steady scales of scripture
Are plunked out daily in practice.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crowd of miracles,
Prayer plods through lonely deserts
noting life’s measure.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the timing of pharisaic dissidence,
Lessons in theory reveal the authentic
character of the world’s composer.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the crescendo of resurrection,
there is a garden path of surrender
where I watch the winding procession of betrayal.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Before the harmony of fireside discipleship,
I close my eyes and listen to the master play.
Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the cross.
I play my Father’s masterpiece.
Suicide took future pictures of you
So I open the locket of my soul wide.
And share who you were
Not who you will be.
I trace chubby cheeks, as the rhythm
of the rocker sings you to sleep. Breathe
deeply your baby scent.
I squeal with delight at first steps and words.
Bandage scrapes, wipe tears, and kiss bruises.
I listen to life beating hard with
challenges no child should bear,
and ache for God to heal you inside and out.
God, I try to understand why you allowed this unfinished
work of art to be painted into my life.
Today, I have no calls from your college dorm, no
laughter as you burst through the door for Christmas.
No bride on your arm, for me to share funny stories with,
and no grandchildren for me one day to cherish . . .
These are the things I can’t quite release. I long
for them. I had hoped for them. So I open my heart
wider still, until joy paints a new picture into  the
empty memories of where you should be.
When
I unlatch
the cage around
my heart,and pull out the throbbing
pain within, I am surprised to find a small
trembling bird, waiting for the
strength of release.
I comfort myself by wrapping up in the
truth of who you were, not in the grief
of who you thought you should be.
Jonathan age 3
National Suicide Hotline
If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/